Fanged
by Melodic HypNotic
Summary: The werewolf who bit Remus . . .
1. Fanged pt1

Disclaimer: Remus Lupin, Rita Skeeter, Azkaban, Ministry of Magic, the dementors, and the Daily Prophet belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest are my fictional babies.

From Willow:  
_My spelling is atrocious and I can't find my spellchecker. I have proofread this story several times. If anyone finds any grammatical errors I have overlooked, which is very likely, I would greatly appreciate you pointing them out to me. Thank you._

___Fanged___

I don't believe that my boss has every given me the chance to prove how great a writer I am. So often he has me chasing for quotes about how unsanitary most Ministry of Magic workers are. That is why I was floored when he approached me about a story on werewolves. See, it's been a while since anything devistating and relating to werewolves has occured, or at least is known about, so he asked me to dig something up.

"M-me, s-sir?" I managed to stammer and he nodded. "B-but, don't you usually send s-someone like Rita Skeeter out for things like this?"

I'm not sure as to why I was taking it as if it were the scariest thing in the world, may-be because I've never been introduced to work on something as complexed as it was, but I remember wholy the mixture of fear and excitement that pulsed in my nerves.

"Skeeter is interviewing the warlock that escaped from being sentenced to Azkaban," he said in his typical monotonous voice, then walked away.

I was definitely excited. Perhaps foolishly excited. But I gathered up all the sanity that held me together and did the research needed. With luck I was able to pull up a name from the database of known werewolves; someone who wasn't already dead, or locked in a confinement cell, or pacing madly behind bars of Azkaban, or who was too young—how sad.

Mercury Helione, a direct descendant of the once well respected and very financially secure family, and heir to Helione estate. The family name began to sink into savagery and shame after the late Mr. and Mrs. Helione was brutally murdered by their own son, Mercury. After careful examination of the bodies the medics were able to declare the attack by a werewolf. Mercury, engrossed with grief—yet grinning like a mad man, I hear—came forward and confessed his deeds a week later. Somehow he saved himself from the torment of the dementors; details were left from any file or parchment that I could find on it.

Foolishly I decided that the best way to get the scoop on a werewolf was to talk to a werewolf, and I had it set in my mind that Mercury Helione would be the werewolf I'd be talking to.

Now often werewolves aren't considered for things such as this: to be interviewed about their brutal life. For werewolves are seldom trusted, their words go unheard or unwritten. But I thought, "What could beat a story about the mysterious life of a werewolf?" How it happened, what goes on through a werewolf's head, etc. would be intriguing to most readers—at least I thought as much.

I sent an owl out to the Helione estate requesting time to interview him, and explained the exact reason as bluntly as I could get it in just two long parchments. Within just a days time I recieved a reply that accepted my request. He had cordially invited me over for tea next Monday at noon.

So when Monday came around I was ready as I would ever be. I had enough parchment and brand new fine silver-tipped quill with me, and I even went as far as to pick up a muggle tape recorder, something I fell quite dependent on later during the interview. I was set, I was excited, and I was nervous.

When I approached the Helione estate I stood back and gasped at the supreme building structure. The estate was taller than the gnarled oak tree that I stood in front of. Massive gargoyles leaned down from their stone perches like they were choking on a large object, and in one of the high windows I saw a shadow pass from between the curtains.

Finally I stopped gawking at the place and averted my eyes to the gates before me. It was old and rickety. The bars were like rusted vines shooting up into dancing helixes, and then spun around an elegant design of the sun centered on the gates crown.

I reached my hand out to push open the gate, but it openned all on its own, emitting what sounded like a screeching cat. And I stepped into the front garden, the gate scraping shut behind me, and walked a weary and nearly growth covered path trimmed with untended hedges.

I peered up often, looking at the house that loomed over me like a giant to an ant. Is this not a big place for one man to dwell?

The gargoyles shadows stretched slightly towards me—I _was_ a jot early, so the sun was yet at its zenith—and I felt as if their stoney eyes were fixed on me, watching me, and waiting. This gave me eerie chills and I shivered quickly, but kept moving down the path.

There were several opennings leading into, I assume, a labyrinth-esque passages, and once I caught sight of a moldied and parched fountain, but I did not dare stray from the path. I had my wand readied at my side in case a vine should spring to life and snag me, or any of the stone and lifeless gargoyles should take breath and swoop down. Childish, I know, but I couldn't restrain the tumultuous pounding of fear from dying down in my chest. And who knows what strange antique statue I may come across, strickening me with horror, if I should go prancing away from my actual destination.

I finally came to the stone steps, where yellow weeds grew like slender fingers reaching for my ankles. The front door—double doors—was located in a large concave, shadowed and stunk of mildew. A vine crept up the sides, and some dangled, tickling the crown of my head. The mahogany doors, carved in a tribalesque fashion, was worked like a tall tower that reached to a discus with splaying beams—the sun. In the middle of each door were massive knockers: gargoyle faces with their snarling mouths chewing on a brass hoop. I grabbed the hoop and gave two loud raps. I could hear them echo through the house, even just standing outside the closed doors.

I thumbed nervously with the smooth base of my quill as I waited to be let in. I heard the sound of footsteps grow closer until the clicking sound of locks being removed told me: _this is it_. A tall, slender man stood in front of me in the crack of the door. His pale face was halfway obstructed by the threshold, though he appeared ill and tired, and I could see his thin fingers slither out.

"Hello. I am Starla Duske from the Daily Prophet," I babbled. "I sent an owl just—"

I stopped abruptly when he gestured for me to enter, and I did so graciously, for I did not fancy those wretched door-knockers. I stood in a narrow hall looking around as the ghostly man walked ahead. I was certain that he was a servant of the house and was going to fetch his master, but he beckoned to me.

"I thought it more comfortable that we have the interview in the dining room," he said halting far ahead and without turning around, "but if you would rather stand in the hall then I shall get a chair for myself."

"No the dining room is fine," I said with an embarrassing quiver in my voice, and followed him like an obedient puppy.

When we arrived in the dining room I gasped impressed. The room was elegant and luxurious. A delightful chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the crystals dangling from the ends caught the light of the sun casting rainbows across the table. Sheer silk curtains, tinted blood red, were pulled completely away from the windows. I forgot the amount of eeriness that the estate possessed as I sat down on the plush cushioned chairs.

"You know I don't get visitors _here_ all that often," he said slowly as he sat across from me, "so this is certainly a bit of a turn around. I would have hired someone to straighten the house and courtyards to be more presentable."

"Oh, it isn't so bad," I lyed.

"But I always keep the dining room sufficient for my tastes," he continued cooly, as if I interrupted him. "I don't quite prefer eating dinner with cobwebs spread across the ceiling."

Without thinking I glanced up to see that the ceiling was indeed clear and decorated with a wonderful design. The man, who I now assume to be Mercury Helione himself, snorted musingly at my obtuse reaction, but appeared indifferent in any case.

"So you are here to interview me on my . . . complications. Do inquire at any moment . . . or would you rather I ramble off a few things and you just take notes?" He looked at me like I was inexperienced, which inflamed me. A writer like me, for 25 or more years, inexperienced? But I held my face straight and calm, and did not dare to unleash myself, where my action would only concur with the look he was giving me.

I fumbled with the recorder, parchment, and quill from out of my pocket, and pressed record. I dipped my quill in ink and wrote my first question.

"Well I guess I'll start with: how did it happen?" I said looking up at him.

He was watching my every move with his amber eyes. I could see that he was amused at my nervous reactions. He leaned on the table, his fingertips supporting the weight of his chin, and gave me a saucy inquizative look.

"How did what happen, exactly? Elaborate," he said with mock stupor.

I was feeling exasperated by what he was doing. Did he think he was funny? I was amusing him that much with my ignorance?

"How did you become a werewolf," I said bluntly because obviously this wasn't the sort of guy to play ring-around-the-rosy with words. "And how did it feel," I added.

He smiled at me, his teeth a dominant feature on him, and said plainly, "I was bitten."

But before I could ask him to be more in detail he spoke up again. "When I was a teenager I was bitten. I was lucky to have survived . . . he was so intent on devouring me. But I didn't feel like dying. Of course, at the time, I had no idea he was a werewolf. I just thought it was a normal wild wolf. I found out differently when I changed . . .."

"How did you know the werewolf was a male?" I asked, really without thinking.

"Well how else do you determine the sex of the canine species?" he said with his lips still curled up and his sandy-blonde eyebrow cocked.

I wasn't sure but I think I blushed. But if I did, Mercury paid no mind. He just leaned back in his chair and continued.

"I'm not sure what really to tell you . . . how it felt," he mused. "It seemed almost as if his fangs were pouring venom as he teared into my calf. Fire shot up my leg; it made me feel numb and nauseated. I struck the beast with a pointed stick, which allowed me to limp away as fast as I could. His howl I can still hear . . . and as I ran as best I could I felt blood drip down from my lips—or I thought it was blood. When I put my fingers to it I found that it was foam. White foam. I was foaming at the mouth like the very yellow eyed beast that attacked me . . . and I was furious . . . that's how it happened, and that's what I felt."

This is not the end; Remus still has to make an appearance.  
The second half is still in process . . . so . . . to be continued . . .


	2. Fanged pt2

Disclaimer: Remus Lupin, Rita Skeeter, Ministry of Magic, Bertie Bott, Quick Quote Quills, and the Daily Prophet belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest are my fictional babies.

___Fanged___

There was a long pause. The silence was only broken by a grandfather clock echoing from one of the halls of the house, signifying that it was one in the afternoon. I thought to myself, "He speaks slowly, but did time really go by that fast?"

"But of course," he spoke again, his voice low and smooth, "being a werewolf doesn't end with your becoming. In fact, it begins a life of ambivalence—a tearing sensation between sorrow and pleasantry, love and hate."

I couldn't imagine what could be so pleasant being a werewolf, but then I've never been a werewolf to make a just decision. So I simply nodded. By this time I had absent-mindedly abandoned my quill on the table top, letting the muggle recorder do all the work. In the back of my mind I amused myself in thinking, "May be my boss will get me one of those brand new Quick Quote Quills after this amazing story that I'll be putting together on werewolves . . . ." 

"I returned," he continued, "to the hotel—for we were on holiday—to only yelling and being punished. My father shouting at me about my stupidity for wandering into that wood." Mercury paused for a second then his face contorted to disgust. "And what did he care anyway . . . if I was gravely wounded, bleeding terribly. The bastard never cared . . . he was always so worried about what everyone else thought of the family . . . what his colleagues thought, especially.

"And whilst being lectured I felt stranger and stranger. Something was spreading through me . . . something was leaking into my vains, and flowing and mingling with my blood. I could feel it. I felt queer; more so than while I ran through the woods escaping. What was this new feeling?

"I don't remember too acurately what happened while I was transformed, besides the immense pain rolling through my body like being boiled from within myself, but beforehand I was arguing ardently with my parents. I was tired and angry, and they were angry.

"And then I awoke far from the hotel. My clothes in shreds—I looked like a begger in rags. I didn't bother going home. I guess I was so out of my head at the time, loopy and drained, that I was only half aware of my actions. I went into town just a walks away. This is where I saw the paper, the Daily Prophet, and skimmed over it's headline and article: WEREWOLF ATTACK AT HOTEL . . . two mutilated bodies, identified to be Pollo and Dawn Helione, sent to the morgue . . . . I knew I killed my parents.

"The wilderness inside me grew dark and hazy, and I forgot why I had even argued with them that night. Distorted memories, blurry memories, of my parents screaming, the terror in their voices, the sound of ripping flesh, and my paws—yes, my paws—drenched in the sticky crimson of their life, came to me bit by bit within time. My guilt came rushing through me, swallowed me, and, like a lost infant, I cried for my parents. Right there, in the middle of the street, I bawled. And I didn't even dare place my bloodied hands to cover my face, my disgraceful face. _I did it! I shamed our name! I committed a horrible sin . . . I killed them . . . I murdered! Damn myself, damn myself!_

"A bit over-dramatic, I know, but it is truth. And I told the truth, all that I could remember, to the authorities. They were all ready to throw me into Azkaban, and at that point I would have gladly taken that ill fate, but sadly my judges showed a rare mercy. That day was very clouded for me. I believe I may have been already delusional. And so I was sentenced to a time frame at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries—where I played _the good boy_. But it was at this time that the guilt was ebbing. Everything was becoming so clear. _Yes . . . why should I feel guilty over my murdering my dastardly parents? As if they didn't have death coming to them, anyway._ I never shared that with my psychologist . . . in fact . . . you're the first I've shared that with. Bravo." He slowly clapped a few times, and I shivered at his eerie presentation.

"They would have locked me in that mad house, I am sure, for good if I shared that," he continued with a suave and inappropriate smirk. "I was twenty-years-old when they released me. Yes, I remember. For just before they released me, at least a week before I suppose, I spent that birthday with a random lunatic rambling off his prurient confessions—all lies, of course, he was in sufferage of pseudologia phantastica, but more company than the raving witch in the padded room. That man was set free, I'll have you know. He dropped his perverted fantasies and lied his way out with practical _fibs_. I ran into him at a grocer in Hogsmeade, and invited him over to sup. At the time I was sure he had not heard me, he seemed quite immersed in convincing the lady at the counter that he was Bertie Bott, the inventor of that ridiculus candy. So I was surprised to find that he in fact came. Unfortunate for the lying bastard that I did not check the date; it seems that fate was not in the mood to exempt kindness upon the cheat. I awoke in the morning, closer to noon, with a mess and a rank stench. Putrid. I cleaned it myself, gagging all the while. It's too bad, as I was somewhat fond of his, strange and peevish as he was, company. From then on I decided to remain in solitude."

Mercury was silent for a while. He looked as if he were tangled in some deep revery. And I, I had my mouth gaped at him. Never had I heard a story quite like this, so intense and filled with sorrow, and drear. I forgot my thirst and the tiny growl in my stomach was pushed away, as I was far more interested in hearing what else he had to say. What a life to live.

"So you _have_ killed someone other than your parents," I mumbled, mostly to myself than directly to him.

"And," I pursuaded hoping that he would continue to be so open with his feelings and his past.

"It was years later," he said, returning from some distant thought, "a family moved into an old house next door." Mercury's gaunt finger pointed to the east, his eyes mysterious and wicked. "Next to my _palace_ the place looked like a shack, but there was enough trees and shrubbery planted around that it obstructed my view from the tasteless mediocre architecture. But it was a family living _there_: a husband, a wife, and a child. I had spoken with the man—he came to ask for my permission to cut back some tree limbs that stretched far into their property. I gave him my assent; though I could tell that he seemed wary of me. Perhaps he read the Daily Prophet a few years back and remembered the _horror of the Helione's_. In any case, I did find out that he was a breeder of sky steeds. Supposably he had a ranch somewhere in the Mediterranean area; so he was gone for long periods of time.

"The house, the courts, were always so quiet, so the sound of a child playing outside traveled far into my personal space. I heard him, every afternoon, on a toddler broom, singing some ridiculus child rhyme. I was so accustomed to silence that the simple play of a child irrated me. One afternoon, the singing and playing stopped abruptly. Curious, I looked out my window, but did not see the boy hovering around on his broom in the front yard. And I heard my gate open; that, long and loud, scraping of aged steel. 'Who is this child,' I ask myself, 'to have the audacity to enter my lot without set permission?' I was eager to trample the child with my rage, and I had made it all the way outside into my front courtyard, but my anger extinguished. 

"The child was off to the side, picking up his broom that had slithered from his control through a thin crack in the wall—a seven foot high fence made of terra-cotta hue stained stone. He looked up at me surprised and worried. He was so small. I had forgotten the feeling of being small . . . and innocent. I felt almost jealous over what he possessed: youth, innocence, normalcy, a bright future, . . . unconditional family love. It was all in his eyes, and I could hear it beating in his heart. Damn, the keen hearing of a werewolf!

" 'I am sorry, sir,' he apologized with concern. 'I did not mean to be here, but my broom—'

'Your trespass has been forgiven,' I said. 'What is your name?'

'Remus. Remus Lupin. I live next door—'

'Would you like to come in and visit me? I do not get too many visitors often. I have an amazing supply of chocolate.'

"The boys eyes lit up with the word _chocolate_, just as I knew it would, and he came quickly on my heels. I envied the spring in his step; I had lost mine, or what little I had left of it, the night I was bit. For years I lived an exhausted life . . . tired, hungry, lonely . . . and now jealous. I kept a large amount of chocolate on hand, eating it on days when the wear of my life would pull me down to an almost nauseating base, and the sugar was revitalizing, at least artificially if anything at all.

"I spent long hours talking with the boy for many days. He was profusely smart, and at times I would forget I was speaking with a child. Why . . . he should be in his . . . fifth year at school, I believe. He was but a lad in the days I remember him." He then scowled. "And I . . . I was old physically; terribly tired. My face an abundance of wrinkles formed prematurely thanks to the wear and tear and stretching and bending and frequent insomnia from my . . . my . . . curse. There were days when I would look at him and hate him. So often he came with plentiful smiles on his faces, unforced and carefree, and the twinkle of youth in his eyes, and the warmth of his parents love surrounding his aura."

I watched as he gritted his teeth as he recalled the very feeling. Did he still feel this way about this boy? Was he still envious of what lacked in his life?

A strange grin spread across his face, almost cold and mad, but his glare was distant. I wondered at this moment if he ever should have been released from St. Mungo's. His mentality seemed unstable. There seemed to be a madness floating from his persona masquerading as sanity. Was he well?

"So . . .," I murmered and he leaned back in his chair.

"So . . .," he began again in mock of my response. "I fought hard to control the hatred for little Remus, for I loved him too, he was good company. He visited me everyday and we'd talk. He was very fascinated with a fictional story I told him about werewolves, and the not-so-fictional fact about werewolves being fatal to silver bullets, knives . . . . But, like most children, he would get bored and want to play games. We did that, too—some Explosive Snap or whatever it is called.

"But one afternoon, I hit the lowest of low points in my emotions. I went on this rampage of destruction; I was just so angry I wanted to destroy everything I saw. I ran through my halls, ripping up my family's paintings, throwing vases to the floor and other priceless antiquities that my family had acquired. And I burst my double doors open and raged down my steps, strangling the plants and tearing their roots from their precious earth. I remember thinking to myself, 'How dare this be my fate?! How dare I be given this life; this damned life?! What good is all that is cheer and just when life puts you in the middle of a sinkhole of despair?!'

"And then I heard the familiar sound of the scraping gate creaking open. By now I was seated on a stone bench by the fountain of my courtyard.

'Go home, Remus,' I hollered to him, my voice shaken with anger. 'It is no good for you to be here.'

"And this was true, for dusk was drawing nigh, and tonight belonged to the animal in me, that flowed through my vains. It always seems like I hit low points on these days . . . . But I knew the boy disobeyed me. He still came and found me shaking on the bench.

"I could feel that strange feeling pulsating inside me once again, just as intense as the first time it happened. It was gradually growing inside me; my body quivering and sweating.

'What is wrong?' I heard him ask, his voice small and concerned. Damn him for caring! Damn him for not obeying! 'Are you ill, Mercury?'

"I glanced up at the sky, the light waning and the moon fading into sight. It wouldn't be long now and it would be doom for the boy. But the hate and the love that dwelled within me for the boy was bickering. Sides of myself arguing, 'Let him die, it is because of his own childish ignorance,' and, 'I will not . . . I will not damn this boys life like my own!'

"I grabbed Remus's wrist, so roughly that I startled him, and I recalled how small he was, as my fingers wrapped entirely around his wirey forearm. 'Leave now!' I bellowed at him, swinging him around and dropping him at the foot of the bench. He scrambled from me, tracing along the hedges, looking for an opening.

"Here is where my head seemed to split in two with pain, and the war between love and hate did not matter any longer, for the wolf in me would decide. I glanced up at the darkened sky quickly, the moon was now glowing strongly. After that I remember running . . . running through the hedges, on all fours, hungry to devoure the boy. He think I mauled him a few times, but finally I caught him at a dead end—I remember that quite clearly—his face in a mask of terror as there was no where for him to go. There had to have been foaming dripping from my long fangs—there was always foam dripping from them on such nights—as I slowly moved in on him. And here is where it gets blurry, and I can not recall much . . . but my teeth clamping down on raw flesh, ripping and savoring the tender flesh, tasting the meat of his arm, I do remember . . . and at the time, I thought it delicious . . . ."

"But the boy, Remus," I said, "he got away. You said he should be in his fifth year at school?"

"Indeed," said Mercury, still laying back lazily in his chair.

The rainbows refracting from the crystal chandelier was now fading, and the light in the room was now growing dimmer. A breeze then whistled outside, gently swaying old yews looming just near the dining room windows, as it grew cooller in the evening.

"But evidently he escaped . . . though, after I damned him first, that is. And . . . I wonder. I wonder if . . . if he so taken by the moon as I am . . . if he loves and hates it, just as I loved and hated him." Mercury stood up and slowly walked to the window closest to me, staring out over his courtyard, which was growing creepier as the light faded. "And if you stay any longer . . . you too will be doomed. So, go now."

He didn't need to tell me twice. I collected my things and started on my way toward the hall, wondering why he invited me on a night of the full moon. Mercury followed close behind me and saw me to the front doors. It was here I noticed the sweat dripping from his brow, and a distinct twitching in his eyes. This couldn't be happening, could it?

I peered out at the darkening sky, but found myself thrown to the ground. When I looked back at Mercury he seemed very angry, and he shook violently and his body seemed to bend as he came towards me, and he looked as he was holding back from screaming. I crawled on the ground a ways before scrambling to my feet, but my heart sank at that moment. The sun was gone, the full moon was aglow, and the stars twinkled maliciously above . . . and a gurgling growl was behind me. I only glanced back for a second to see that Mercury was no longer there, but a foaming, rabid wolf with menacing amber eyes—a werewolf—stood ready to lunge at me.

I ran. As fast as I could I ran, but the growth on the path became my downfall as I tripped and landed face first. I didn't dare look up. My body quivering in fear, and the chilly night did not help it. I could hear the growl, and then a long and sinister howl—he sounded like he was right in front of me. And, daringly looking up ahead of me, indeed, he was. He had circled me, and now was proud and singing to the moon.

Maybe this was why I never got the oppertunities that someone like Rita Skeeter had. Surely she wouldn't have put herself in this position? She's so ambitious and I'm . . . I'm . . . facing death because of my foolish decision. I didn't even take the date of this interview into consideration. Surely Rita Skeeter would have—she's so much more professional than I.

Mercury finished howling and his eyes fell on me. His long tongue whipped across his lips and the foam, nastier than I invisioned, dripped down onto his frightening paws. He lunged at me . . . this is it. I closed my eyes in fear, and reached for my wand in my pocket. I pointed it straight out and yelled, in my quivering voice, the first thing that popped into my head: "Avada Kedavra!"

I felt the impact, the werewolf fell on me, and it knocked me to the ground, and something rough scraped across my brow. I still held my wand in my hand and I still had my eyes closed tightly, but the werewolf lay on top as well . . . unmoving. I opened my eyes. Foam had dripped on my eyelids and I was in danger of it dripping onto my eyes themselves if I did not get the werewolf off me. I shoved him away, his body dead weight—how did he die so quickly? But then I saw it, impaled into the werewolf's chest, was not my wand I had pulled out, but my quill. My silver tipped quill.

This was a bit too much for me, the anxiety was now effecting me, and I felt nauseated. What a story this will be: the past of the late Mercury Helione, how he became a werewolf and how it affected his mentality, his physique, and most importantly . . . his life; and then nearly escaping death from a blood thirsty werewolf!

I felt something crawling on my brow, and tried wiping it away, but found that it was blood. My blood. So I escaped with a wound—a not so serious wound to boot. A mere scratch . . . it's nothing . . . and I will return to the office with a story that will put Rita Skeeter to shame . . . really, it's just a scratch . . . just a scratch . . . 

THE END.

Aw, poo on this story! I didn't turn out the way I wanted it to. But, hey, good news is that I'm working a James Potter story, from his perspective, and I'm hoping it'll turn out better. *crosses fingers*


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